


The Oak Tree and The Cypress

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clueless Sherlock, Fake Marriage, Fake Relationship, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluffier than a rabbit snuggling an alpaca, Friends to Lovers, Holding Hands, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Smitten John, a lot of fluff, soft bois
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: Things Sherlock didn't expect to happen at midnight on a Thursday: for John to be kissing him. For John's lips to be so delicious. For his own mouth, stung by the sweetness, to kiss John back—or for his hands to raise to John's cheeks in order to lengthen it. He didn't expect his heart to be bursting with pure joy and relief, or for their night to end with John in a hospital bed. And he certainly did not expect to turn them into fake husbands.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 192
Kudos: 230





	1. The Knight and the Damsel

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story comes from the poem "On Marriage" by Kahlil Gibran:
> 
> "Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.  
> For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.  
> And stand together, yet not too near together:  
> for the pillars of the temple stand apart,  
> And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm his husband," Sherlock says with confidence.
> 
> "Ah." The medic smiles, suddenly pleasant. "Hop in." 
> 
> And that's the story of how Sherlock and John become fake married. 

Things Sherlock didn't expect to happen at midnight on a Thursday: for John to be kissing him. For John's lips to be so delicious. For his own mouth, stung by the sweetness, to kiss John back—or for his hands to raise to John's cheeks in order to lengthen it. He didn't expect his heart to be bursting with pure joy and relief, or for their night to end with John in a hospital bed. And he certainly did not expect to turn them into fake husbands.

***

Sherlock has always fancied himself a ravishing, gifted, and humble man of creativity and intellect. Ergo, he is skilled at many things. He's skilled at deducing, for instance. He's skilled at murders (the solving, not the committing, though he possesses the wisdom to be skilled at that as well). He's skilled at the pirouette a la seconde, and he's skilled at playing the Kayser etudes on his violin. He's skilled at not sleeping. He's skilled at avoiding people. He's skilled at making John laugh until his eyes begin to leak. 

John is skilled at things, too. He's skilled at doctoring. Soldiering. Doctor-soldiering. Orgasms. Carrying himself in an oddly endearing manner while dressed like a man twice his age. He's also astoundingly skilled at the Sunday crossword. Sherlock knows approximately thirty percent of the aforementioned due to personal experience; the other seventy percent, he's simply deduced. 

John is also very good at saving Sherlock. Too good, one might say. He's saved him so many times that Sherlock's lost count. And though Sherlock doesn't particularly love playing the part of damsel in distress, there's a part of him—deep, _deep_ (deep) down—that doesn't dislike being saved. It causes him to feel strange things like "protected" and "cared for" and "safe," and those are things he doesn't feel very often. 

And John wears shining armour quite well—but even John's armour gets dinged up on occasion. These are the times he's _too_ good at saving Sherlock. 

***

On a peaceful evening in February, Sherlock leaves Baker Street on his own to go out and prevent a murder. (This is his first mistake, according to John.) The would-be murderer: Mrs. Mila Petrova. Thirty-six years old. Wife of Nicolai Petrov, the London Symphony's principal contrabass player. Mrs. Petrova has recently discovered that Nicolai is romantically involved with Ai Lin, the symphony's harpist, blah blah, she's definitely going to kill them both.

Sherlock follows her to Royal Festival Hall (second mistake) for the symphony's performance of _The Rite of Spring._ (His third mistake, apparently—though Sherlock refuses to answer for Stravinsky's sweeping interpretation of the bassoon's chromatic range). He finds her just before intermission, during the climax of Danse de la terre, on the third floor next to a row of xylophones.

He hides behind a timpani and hurls a mallet at her. She attempts to hurl him out the window. 

His descent would align magnificently with the Virgin Sacrifice—if John didn't show up to save him. But he does show up. He shows up, grumpy and heroic. He yells at Sherlock a little bit, and calls him an idiot a little bit, and then he yells at Mrs. Petrova (more than a little bit). 

Mrs. Petrova laughs at John, and she notes that he's a little bit littler than Sherlock, and she decides to hurl him out the window instead. 

Intermission begins. The audience cheers. The police arrive. Things get loud and blurry until Sherlock finds himself outside of the building, crouching on the pavement next to a semi-conscious John. John is alert enough to reassure him he's going to be alright—there doesn't appear to be any spinal injury. And though alright he may be, there's an infinitesimal possibility that after he falls fully unconscious, Sherlock cradles his head in his lap until the medics arrive. 

Sherlock is grateful for their arrival, and for their careful handling of John as they take him to the ambulance. He's _not_ grateful when they won't allow him to follow them onto the vehicle. 

"Sorry, who are you?" one of the medics barks at him. 

_I'm Sherlock Fucking Holmes! Move!_ is probably not the answer most guaranteed to grant him passage. So he comes out with the first response he can think of. 

"I'm his husband," Sherlock says with confidence.

"Ah." The medic smiles, suddenly pleasant. "Hop in." 

And that's the story of how Sherlock and John become fake married. 

***

Being fake married to John is grand. Sherlock can't help pondering why they've never been fake married before. He wonders, in fact, why anyone would ever get _real_ married when fake marriage is so fantastic. 

As a fake husband, Sherlock's presence isn't questioned by the medical staff. He's regularly briefed on John's condition (a concussion, bone fractures, internal bleeding—spine and skull intact), and he's allowed to stay after all other visitors must leave. This is good, because after surgery, John sleeps for far longer than Sherlock finds convenient. 

That night, Sherlock does what any fake husband would do: he stays there, next to a bruised and sleepy John, and he watches him breathe. He also decides he can't leave John's side. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Perhaps that's something fake husbands do, too. 

When John stirs a few hours later, Sherlock rises from his chair, tugged by the urgency to be closer to him. As John's eyes slowly come into focus, he sees Sherlock, and his face lights up with a smile so bright it could recharge the sun. He opens his mouth to speak—but he's too exhausted to produce a sound, so he beckons for Sherlock to come nearer. 

Sherlock tilts downwards to hear what John's trying to say. John doesn't say anything. Instead, he sets a hand on the side of Sherlock's face, nudges him closer, and encloses the space between their mouths. 

The kiss is chaste, yet especially satisfying. It's John's way of saying to him: _I'm alright. I'm glad I saved you. Thank you for being here._

Sherlock kisses a few words of his own: _Hello, idiot. I'm very happy that you're alright. By the way, I accidentally turned us into husbands. Don't worry—we aren't real husbands. Although now that you're kissing me, the idea of that is more appealing than it was yesterday. Also! Please stop saving me! Idiot!_

When he finally pulls away, John grins up at him, eyelids heavy, and it's Sherlock who can't produce words. 

_Hi,_ John mouths silently. 

_Hi,_ Sherlock mouths in return. 

John takes Sherlock's hand before letting his eyes fall closed. As he drifts off again, Sherlock squeezes his hand gently, because he wants to be sure John knows he's going to stay. 

John squeezes back, and Sherlock doesn't let go until morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Marina for pointing out my mistake with the Russian surnames! 💜


	2. The Dream and The Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock fidgets, laughing nervously as his gaze moves. “I may have said something to the medical staff after you were injured. And to that end, there may be certain...implications involving the two of us.”
> 
> Sherlock’s words are dizzying, but as he stammers and shifts in his seat, John can't help but admire another side of Sherlock he rarely sees—timid. It's rather adorable. 
> 
> “Whatever it is, Sherlock, you can tell me,” John softly reassures him.

There’s an old saying that in the final moments before our deaths, our lives flash before our eyes. John’s not sure if he believes that. 

Though it isn’t John’s time to die, not yet—even now, his “life review” would be pretty impressive. He’s cured people. He’s saved people. He’s seen murder and war and peace. He’s seen much of the world, and he’s seen things much of the world wouldn’t believe.

But as gravity pulls him down from the third floor of Royal Albert Hall to the pavement, there’s only one thing on his mind.

It’s Sherlock—it always is, he supposes—memories of Sherlock flashing before him with perfect clarity. Every moment they’ve shared since the first, when Sherlock seemed to know more about John’s life than John did. There are memories of the small things, too (which don’t seem so small right now). The way Sherlock’s coat rustles in the breeze while his long legs carry him down the alleyway. The way his brow furrows whenever he’s confused or displeased. The crows feet around his eyes, and how they deepen when John causes him to laugh until he can hardly breathe. 

But there’s something that occurs to John with even more clarity than the memories. Five very simple, very inconvenient words.

_I’m in love with Sherlock._

_Oh, sh—_

Make that six and a half.

***

For a very short time after the incident with Mrs. Petrova, John doesn't experience much clarity. The events that immediately follow are quite muddled. He’s in and out of consciousness, and there are noises and lights and voices, and it’s difficult to tell what’s real and what’s a dream.

His memory of Sherlock approaching him on the pavement after the incident, begging him to say something—anything. That was real. He remembers how very important it was to let Sherlock know that he was okay. And that was the truth. He was in pain, but still breathing, and he could still feel all of his limbs, and he could also still feel that he loved Sherlock. (Real, too, though he didn’t say it out loud.) 

After that, he hears the voices of medics chattering as he boards the ambulance, and more chattering as he goes in and out of surgery. This is real. They tell him that his husband will meet him in his hospital room. This is a dream. And a strange one, at that. He may have suffered a head injury, but he’s certain he would remember if he were married. 

He rests and recovers in a cold hospital room as various medical instruments beep and tick around him. Real. Sherlock is there, next to his bed. Dream. Close enough for John to touch. Close enough for John to kiss. So John does. Dream, dream, dream.

He’s glad he saved Sherlock. Real. He’d do it again if he had to. Real. Sherlock's lips are plush and dry and maddeningly beautiful. Real. They’re pressed into John’s lips as he gently cradles his head in his hands. It’s the perfect kiss—simple, earnest, blissful. The type of kiss that could only occur in a dream.

***

Eventually, John becomes fully awake. He’s dizzy and slightly nauseous and he's got no idea how much time has passed. But although the world is a bit swirly, he sees Sherlock sitting next to him.

John is certain he’s real, this time. He’s hunched forwards in a chair with his head on the bed, his cheek flat against the mattress. He’s snoring. John thinks he might be drooling as well.

John remembers, yet again, that he loves him.

"Sherlock," he rasps. His throat is sore and dry.

"Mmm? John?" Sherlock's eyes snap open. He jerks his head up from the bed and looks over. "John," he repeats, exhaling with relief. "Oh. You're awake."

"Yes," John whispers. "And you? Is this where you slept?”

“Yes.” Sherlock yawns. “Of course.”

"When did you arrive? At the hospital, that is?” Surely, John thinks, it hasn’t been more than a few hours.

Sherlock tilts his head to one side, regarding him as though he’s puzzled by the question. "I arrived when you did. Approximately...” He peeks down into his pocket at his mobile phone. “Thirty-six hours ago."

John huffs, though his throat tightens further with emotion. "You stayed here the entire time?"

"Well, not the entire time.” Sherlock rubs the sleepiness from his eyes. “I stepped away briefly to use the facilities and to acquire food. But otherwise, yes. You saved my life; I wasn’t going to leave you here.”

 _But that’s simply what we do,_ John thinks. Nothing out of the ordinary. One of them always seems to be saving the other. Still, his face grows oddly warm at the thought of Sherlock waiting there next to him, day and night, like a stone. His heart begins to thump irregularly, and he curses the heart monitor for making it apparent.

”Anyhow,” Sherlock abruptly continues. “I suppose this is also a silly question, but—are you feeling alright?”

"Yes, I’m alright.” John looks down at himself to examine his injuries. He’s got one arm in a sling and one leg in a cast. Much of the rest of him is bruised or bandaged. “Well, no. I feel like I got thrown from the third floor of a building, but all things considered...not bad." 

Sherlock chuckles. "To be expected.”

John smiles, his gaze falling to the side of the bed, where he notices Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his own. 

Sherlock's eyes fall to the same spot, and it seems as much of a surprise to him as it does John. He pulls his hand away quickly and mumbles an apology. 

“Don’t apologise,” John says. “I've only got one working hand, apparently. Might as well be doing something useful with it."

The corners of Sherlock’s heart-shaped lips tug upwards. There’s a subtle awe in his expression. It’s a look that John is fond of, but rarely sees—the one he gets when John does something that befuddles him beyond words. But it doesn’t last long; a serious expression quickly sweeps over his features. 

"John," he says. “Now that you're awake, there's a matter I should probably fill you in on."

“Yes?” John asks.

“It’s the most ridiculous thing, actually.” Sherlock fidgets, laughing nervously as his gaze moves. “I may have said something to the medical staff after you were injured. And to that end, there may be certain...implications involving the two of us.”

Sherlock’s words are dizzying, but as he stammers and shifts in his seat, John can't help but admire another side of Sherlock he rarely sees—timid. It's rather adorable. 

“Whatever it is, you can tell me,” John softly reassures him. 

Sherlock nods and opens his mouth to go on—but he’s interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

"Hello!” comes a woman's voice, bright and peppy, from the other side. "I'm just here to record your vitals."

John clears his throat. "Yes," he calls out hoarsely. "Come in."

Sherlock heaves a grumbling sigh—half frustration, half relief. 

“Oh! Good morning, Doctor Watson!" the woman says cheerfully as she walks over. “Good to see you awake. I'm Gemma, the nurse on duty." 

"Good morning," John greets her. “You can call me John.” He tilts head slightly. “This is Sherlock." 

“Yes! We’ve met. He was here yesterday as well.” Gemma grins and nods at him. “Quite the supportive husband you’ve got there! Could I grab your arm to take your blood pressure, dear?"

John starts the tiniest bit at her assumption, though it’s not exactly an uncommon one. “Oh, no,” he says, offering her his arm. "Sherlock’s not my—”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says sharply, and he coughs so dramatically that John stops mid-sentence. “Do you remember that— _thing—_ I was telling you about a moment ago?"

John turns to him. "Well, no. You never actually got around to saying it."

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. He drives his gaze into John as if he's attempting to drill a secret message into his brain. 

John continues to stare at him quizzically.

Sherlock sighs again—definitely frustration this time. “Right. Your head got all rattled. Come here.” He leans forwards to whisper something into John’s ear.

_Oh._

"Oh!" John's eyes grow wide. "Oh.” 

Sherlock leans back in his chair. His cheeks are bright red. He fidgets a bit more.

“Right!” John blurts. “Oh, yes. Yes. Apologies. I—I hit my head, you know. But it’s true. We are....soooooo married.” He laughs like a madman, confidently taking Sherlock’s hand into his. “Yes. Husband. _My_ husband, to be specific. Afraid you won’t find two people more married than we are!” He clutches to Sherlock tightly, digging his nails into his own palm—just to be sure this isn’t _actually_ a dream.

Sherlock crooks an eyebrow, nods slowly, and mouths a very subtle and very sarcastic “ _nice work.”_

"Your vitals are looking good, Doctor Watson," Gemma chirps. She seems to have blissfully ignored all of...whatever the hell that was. "Blood pressure is a tiny bit low, but nothing to worry over.” She pauses, looking down at her watch. “Hmmm. In the past thirty seconds, your heart rate has skyrocketed." 

Neither John, nor Sherlock, have got anything to say about that.


	3. The Irritation and the Adoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, tell me then—" John tilts his head inquisitively, and Sherlock can't help but get a bit giddy when he looks at him like that. "—how are you going to convince everyone here that you’re a fantastic husband?”

Sherlock plans to explain everything to John the very second the big-mouthed nurse exits the room. As soon as she does, however, John bursts into laughter like a rabid bonobo, and he can't get a word in edgewise. 

"Shut up!" Sherlock kindly suggests. 

"I didn't say anything!" says John, being deliberately obtuse in the way only John can be.

"You don't need to! The judgmental manner in which you arch your eyebrow and unhinge your jaw speaks volumes!" 

"Oh, Sherlock. No—I'm not judging you." John makes a heroic attempt to catch his breath. "But give me a moment to process the news, alright? It's not every day I wake up in a hospital bed married." 

" _Fake_ married!" Sherlock emphasises. "John, I do think it's important for you to understand the difference." 

"Fake married," John echoes, losing the battle with oncoming laughter.

Sherlock considers throwing his arms into the air indignantly—or at the very least, crossing them over his chest to convey his dramatic frustration—but either of these actions would required un-holding John's hand. And although John has been gripping so hard that at one point Sherlock's circulation became fully cut off, he would prefer not to.

"I know you must have had a good reason for creating this scenario," John continues. "I'm just trying to figure out what it is."

"Is it not obvious?" Sherlock thinks John probably hit his head harder than the doctors initially suspected. "They were going to take you away!"

"Who was?"

"The medics! In the ambulance! To the hospital!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong—but isn't that the point of an ambulance?" 

"Don't pester me with logic, John!" Sherlock protests. "Ugh. I liked you better when you were unconscious." 

"Clearly. You got us married." 

"Fake! Married!" Sherlock pouts, and when John begins laughing again, Sherlock tries very hard not to acknowledge the fascinating way his face lights up. He diverts his focus instead to a bouquet of flowers in a vase across the room—a gift from one of John's coworkers. 

"I'm sorry," John apologises, taking another deep breath. "Would you care to catch me up on the rest of the story?"

"No. I would not." As of five seconds ago, Sherlock is giving John the silent treatment. This, from what he has gathered, is a great pillar of marriage. 

"I promise not to laugh this time." 

"No, thank you." There’s no point. John is probably just going to fake divorce him, anway. 

"Alright, then,” John says. “I’m going to venture a guess.”

His eyes continue to bore into Sherlock. Sherlock focuses intently on a wilting lily. He sort of wishes he could wilt right now.

"You were afraid.” John squeezes his hand—softly this time. “Afraid of leaving me alone after I got hurt, so you did what you had to in order to stay with me. And it worked in your favour once you got here, because nobody questioned your presence." 

"Hmph. Wrong,” Sherlock replies. Because he _is_ wrong. And if Sherlock were not giving his future ex fake husband the silent treatment, he would tell him the real answer: 

_I wasn't simply afraid, John. I was nearly inconsolable. I couldn't bear to be away from you for another second, because for too many seconds I thought I lost you, and I couldn't lose you for any more seconds after that. So I made us fake husbands, because it was the best idea I could come up with at the time. And because of that, I can be here with you and hold your hand and kiss you! Idiot!_

"It's actually not a bad idea," John acknowledges. 

“It’s not?” Sherlock finally tears his eyes from the lily and back to John. 

"No. I understand why you did it.” John looks at him so sweetly that his face would probably melt if it got rained on. “And considering I'm likely stuck here for at least a couple of weeks...I'm on board with pretending to be married if it means you get to stay as much as possible." 

"You are?" Sherlock's voice jumps a half register. He draws a breath. "Of course you are. I mean, being married to me is—"

" _Fake_ married." 

"... _fake_ married to me is fantastic." Sherlock speaks with certainty, though he's not actually certain. If it were anyone but John, he'd probably drive them absolutely mad. 

"It's not me you'll need to convince." John nods towards the door to the hospital corridor. "It's them. The nurses. The doctors. The residents. Even the custodians—you _know_ they talk to everyone. So, tell me then—" he tilts his head inquisitively, and Sherlock can't help but get a bit giddy when he looks at him like that. "—how are you going to convince everyone here that you’re a fantastic husband?”

He’s right. It is important to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes. Sherlock considers what he knows about married life. His parents are happy in their marriage, but he was always too busy pursuing his own interests to study their behaviour. The only other source of knowledge he has comes mostly from his cases—where at least one party wants to/may have/definitely did kill the other. 

But with a relative lack of homicidal intentions, he’s sure marriage could be quite nice. Two people together—living together, waking up in the morning and doing nothing together until they go back to bed and do it all again. And when they aren't doing nothing, they're probably doing things that are fun, also together, because they enjoy one another's company. They do things that aren't particularly fun together, too—such as shopping and cooking and hosting the occasional guest. Two people—with an unwavering attachment and commitment to each other, who drive each other crazy with an approximate ratio of 11% irritation and 89% adoration (give or take, depending on the alignment of the space globes, or whatever drivel people pay attention to). Two people who, above everything else, are fiercely loyal and protective of one another—and who couldn't imagine life any other way. Not in the present, nor the future—both near and distant. 

But this already describes his and John’s relationship. There must be something he's missing. 

Sherlock happens to know that married people also hold hands. And sometimes they kiss. And as of the other night, these are things he and John apparently do as well. So what now? 

He scans the room desperately for some sort of idea.

“Blankets!" he declares. 

"Pardon?"

"I could take care of you while you're here,” Sherlock explains. “Bring you food and water when you need them. Pass your phone to you when you're bored, or the television changer, or the newspaper. I could even talk to you about things you find interesting. And if you fall asleep while engaging in those activities, I could ensure that you're adequately covered in blankets. And if you're not, I could bring you more, so you don't get too cold." 

John grins at him—that same sweet, bright, melting-in-the-rain grin from earlier. "That would be nice." He pauses. "Nicely convincing. To the others. Is what I meant to say." 

Sherlock frowns. He worries again about John's head injury. "And what about you? What will your contribution entail?" He moves closer to the edge of his chair and closer to John, waiting for his answer, because it's very important that he hear every word of the plan. 

"Hm." John nods towards his mostly broken body. "I'm a bit limited at the moment physically. But I could always use my words." 

Sherlock inches closer. "What words?"

"Nice words." There's a glimmer in his eyes as they wander over Sherlock's face. "I could tell you that you're brilliant and beautiful." 

"Yes,” Sherlock agrees. John’s brain is obviously just fine. “That is indeed very husband-like." 

"And I could maybe...tell you that your skin and hair look very soft, and that you smell very nice." 

"What else?" 

"Well, I do have the ability to use one hand. And you know that stray curl that sometimes falls over your face, and stays there until the wind blows it away or you push it back?" 

"Mmhmm." 

"Perhaps I could be the one to push it back, sometimes." 

"Yes." Sherlock nods slowly. "With your one good hand." 

"With my one good hand." 

"Good idea." Sherlock subtly tilts his head until the rogue curl in question falls forwards. "However, I think we ought to practice first." 

John's fingers twitch in his. "I'll need my hand back for that." 

Sherlocks takes a moment to weigh the consequences. He lets go of John's hand. 

John lifts his one good hand—very cautiously at first—and Sherlock's anticipation is so acute it nearly aches. 

"Like this?" He sweeps the stray lock of hair from Sherlock's forehead and tucks it behind his ear, and the action is so astoundingly delicate it gives Sherlock goosebumps. 

"Yes." Sherlock clears his throat. The words he's about to say feel oddly and thoroughly pornographic. "That's good, but for it to be convincing, you'll probably need to go further. Rake your fingers through my hair a bit." 

"Yes, that would be more convincing," John agrees. Starting at Sherlock's temple, he glides his fingertips across the side of his scalp. He then returns to his temple, repeating the action again, and again, and again. 

Sherlock’s eyes fall closed as he releases a rattling sigh. It's wonderful. He feels tingly and happy. _This_ must be the reason people get married for real.

"You're doing fantastic, Sherlock.”

"Hmmm?"

"You're a very good actor. I'm almost convinced you're truly enjoying this." 

Sherlock's not _that_ good of an actor. "You as well," he says. "Although—"

"Although?"

"If you're going to employ this...current...husbandly action...in which you caress my head...it would likely be more believable if you caressed my face as well." 

"Good point.” John brushes his callused fingers over Sherlock's cheekbone. Down his jaw. “And probably this.” Down his neck. "And this." Across Sherlock's silk shirt, just over his clavicle. 

The world seems to fall away. The room turns impossibly still—even with murmurs of hospital sounds in the background. John's fingers skim back to Sherlock's shoulder, back up his neck; then to his jaw and over his cheek, where he tucks his hair back again. Then, his hand falls away.

Sherlock realises he's been holding his breath. He exhales, inhales, and opens his eyes. 

The heartrate monitor is suddenly very loud and very, very fast. The air is thick with an odd, silent tension. They hold onto each other's gazes until Sherlock forces words from his mouth to break it. 

"Brilliant performance, John!"

John laughs nervously. "Thank you! And you’ve got so many good ideas!" 

"They will _surely_ believe that we are in love and married!"

"Surely! Who wouldn't believe that?"

"Definitely not those idiots!" Sherlock emphatically acknowledges. "But…" his eyes fall to John's hand. "In the meantime, we ought to continue holding hands. Just to avoid confusion." 

"You're probably right." John takes his hand. "I think we're off to a good start. I say we work with the current material, and come up with whatever else we need as it all unfolds. Sound good?"

Sherlock gives him a solitary nod. Oh, he's truly got no idea what he's doing. No idea at all. But with John as his partner, it's a mystery he's very keen on solving. 


	4. The Apiary and the Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John looks at Sherlock adoringly, thanking him for being so thoughtful. He’s not faking a thing, although Sherlock doesn’t need to know that. 
> 
> But John knows; he knows how madly in love he is. He also knows that at best, Sherlock loves him as a friend. But that’s an issue for Future John to deal with. For the time being, he’ll focus on healing and on being an adequate pretend husband.

John is able to remain awake for most of the morning. Mrs. Hudson stops in at around 9; Sherlock has already given her the details of their arrangement, which she goes on about merrily. When Sherlock asks her to calm down, she simply tells him that if they can pretend, so can she. Sherlock grudgingly agrees—as long as she stops taking surreptitious cell phone photos of the two of them holding hands. 

Shortly after, Molly drops by. She’s equally giddy about the fake marriage. She jokes about throwing them a reception. Mrs. Hudson loves the idea. John secretly does as well. Sherlock reminds them that he hates parties. Molly and Mrs. Hudson discuss the details anyway. 

As they all sit together happily—John close enough to Sherlock to feel his warmth—John thinks to himself that this is what family ought to be like. 

Just before noon, the two women insist that Sherlock return to Baker Street in order rest up. Sherlock argues, but John urges him to go. He’s been there for nearly two days, and besides—John will likely spend the entire afternoon sleeping.

Apparently, it takes a lot of energy to bask in the glow of being fake newlyweds, because that’s exactly what he does. 

***

Sherlock returns just before visiting hours are over. He brings things he thinks John will enjoy: his laptop, some crosswords, his favourite tea, and a few of his medical journals. He also brings some sort of oddly shaped neck pillow—which he says is for John—but John soon learns that Sherlock actually plans to use it to lay his head on the bed in a manner that isn’t tortuously uncomfortable. 

John’s not completely accustomed to having Sherlock care for him this way—he’s very good at it. Or good at faking it, as the case may be.

John looks at Sherlock adoringly, thanking him for being so thoughtful. He’s not faking a thing, although Sherlock doesn’t need to know that.

But John knows; he knows how madly in love he is. He also knows that at best, Sherlock loves him as a friend. But that’s an issue for Future John to deal with. For the time being, he’ll focus on healing and on being an adequate pretend husband.

***

Around ten that night, Sherlock lays his pillow out and tucks himself beneath John’s arm. John wraps his own arm around Sherlock’s shoulder and begins to rake his fingers through his hair—just as they practiced earlier.

Sherlock sighs in response. It sounds like a happy sigh. 

John tells Sherlock that his hair is every bit as soft as he imagined, and that he’s brilliant and beautiful—just as they practiced, too. He brushes a very soft kiss against the crown of Sherlock’s head—which is something they did not practice. He didn’t plan to do it. It was sort of automatic, given the proximity, but very subtle—perhaps Sherlock didn’t notice. 

He did notice.

“John?”

“—Yeah?”

“Did you just kiss the top of my skull?” he asks playfully.

John bursts into laughter. "Your skull. Did I kiss it? Yeah. Maybe a little bit. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Sherlock laughs as well. "It’s a good addition to the repertoire. You can do it again, if you feel inclined." 

John does feel inclined, so he presses his lips to the crown of Sherlock’s head—more deliberately this time. 

Another sigh from Sherlock. He wriggles a bit. "Hand,” he instructs, offering his to John.

John obliges, weaving their fingers together. His pain medicine seems to be kicking in, and he's becoming very drowsy, so he wishes Sherlock goodnight. 

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock responds. "Rest well." 

"I will," John replies quietly. With Sherlock next to him like this, it would be hard for him not to. 

***

The next morning—very, very early—the two of them are awakened again by Gemma coming into the room to take John’s vitals. After remarking how adorable they are, she lets them know that the psychiatric specialist, Doctor Torres, will be paying them a visit this morning to discuss John’s recovery. 

Sherlock grumbles a bit, complains that shrinks are useless in this case, and he stands up to go make them tea. 

He returns moments later, and shortly thereafter, the psychiatric specialist visits. Coincidentally, she's someone John knows from his undergraduate program. 

"Elisa!" he greets her. "Oh, of course. Doctor Torres. Good to see you.”

"Hello, Doctor Watson," she says with a friendly smile. "I noticed you’re my patient only just before coming in—and although I'm pleased to help you, if you think it might be a conflict of interest, we can request a reassignment." 

"Not at all," John says. "I'm glad to be working with you."

“Good!” she responds with an even bigger smile.

Sherlock clears his throat loudly and pointedly. 

"Oh! Hello!” she acknowledges. “I'm sorry, I ought to introduce myself. I’m Doctor Torres. Doctor Watson and I attended Barts together."

"I'm John's husband,” Sherlock responds. 

"Sherlock," John adds.

“Yes. I’m Sherlock, John’s husband.”

"That's wonderful! Congratulations!" she says. "How long have you two been married?"

What a question. What a question that’s completely normal to ask, but that John and Sherlock have not planned for at all.

John panics. He notices Sherlock's body stiffen. 

"Five months," Sherlock blurts out. 

"Three years," John blurts at the exact same time. 

They glance at one another. Sherlock lifts his eyebrows. John grits his teeth. 

"That is to say—” John jumps in, attempting to recuperate. “We’ve been married five months. Together for three years." 

"That's fantastic!" She grins politely. "And how did you meet?"

"Bee farm," John hastily responds. 

"Funeral," Sherlock responds in unison. 

They glance at one another again—this time with utter confusion. 

“Ummmm…” John mumbles.

"John hit his head," Sherlock offers. 

Doctor Torres nods. There's a beat of awkward silence. 

“Ah, yes.” she continues, looking down at her clipboard. “Well, that’s why I’m here, actually! Do you have a few moments? I just want to discuss some of the potential side effects of the concussion.”

"Of course!" Right now, John will do just about anything to move the conversation forwards. 

Sherlock bolts up from his chair. “I’m going across the road to the cafe.” He turns stiffly towards Elisa and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you, Doctor Torres.”

“You as well.” She shakes his hand.

“John, erm… darling...dearest.” Sherlock turns back to John just as stiffly, extending his hand towards him in the same manner. “I’ll be back in just a bit.”

John looks down at Sherlock’s hand, partially horrified. Is he really offering to shake his hand...in a husbandly way? 

Sherlock doesn’t move; it appears the answer is yes.

“Alright, love.” John finally takes Sherlock’s hand, pulls it in, and places a kiss on the back of it.

Sherlock gives him a grateful look of relief before shoving both hands into his pockets, spinning on his heels, and exiting the room.

***

_Is she gone yet? SH_

_Who, Doctor Torres? Yeah. Long gone._

_Sorry about the awkward handshake. SH_

_Ha! It's fine. Although we probably don't need to add that to the repertoire._

_John. SH_

_Yes?_

_What in God’s name is a bee farm??? SH_

_You know… the place where they raise bees._

_It's called an apiary. SH_

_Oh. Well, how about you? Do I seem like the type of man to pick someone up at a dead person’s memorial?_

_Sort of. SH_

_We're doomed, aren't we? SH_

_I wouldn’t say that. Not at all._

_Do you think she believed that we're married? SH_

_I think so._

_Good. But just in case, we ought to step up our game a little bit. SH_

_Agreed. You on your way back?_

_Yes. Fifteen minutes. Don't go anywhere. SH_

_I'll try. :) See you soon!_


	5. The Afternoons and the Evenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stares down at his hand for a second before taking it, turning it upwards and kissing his palm, just as Sherlock did before. He continues to follow Sherlock's path—kissing his wrist, his arm, and his inner elbow. He pauses. Sherlock expects him to do as he did himself; re-tracing the trail of kisses back to their origin. But instead, he continues upwards, kissing his inner arm, his bicep, his tricep, his collarbone, and finally, his shoulder. 
> 
> Oh, it's sensational. 
> 
> He pauses again, as if waiting for Sherlock to protest. 
> 
> Sherlock would have to be mad to do so. 
> 
> "You've got some very good ideas," Sherlock reassures him. 

John gets moved from urgent care to short term care the next day. He's got a much nicer room: bigger, with natural sunlight, and his own bathroom and shower—there's even a lock on the door. The two of them are pleasantly surprised by the upgrade. Sherlock considers briefly that his brother may have pulled some strings, but no matter. He plans to make good use of the door lock to facilitate himself and John sleeping past five in the morning. 

For the next few days, Sherlock keeps with his routine of going home in the afternoon and returning to the hospital in the evening. Absurdly, he misses the hospital while he's away. He finds that he can hardly wait to get back there, and his heart bursts with excitement as he enters the building. It's very odd. Who on earth misses a hospital? Is there really any sort of appeal? He doesn't miss the smells, or the noises, or the irritating nurses—that much is certain. 

One thing is certain, however: when he's with John as of late, he smiles much more than usual. He smiles when John plays with his hair and kisses the top of his skull and uses his nicest words. It might even be his new favourite thing to do with John, second only to going on cases with him, which is saying a lot. 

This must be what it's like to be happy, he thinks. And although he's got no means for comparison, it must mean that John is a wonderful fake husband. 

Sherlock's glad that he did the crazy thing and lied to the medics. This is what he's most certain of, above everything else. 

***

Both of them have settled into their own shared routine in the evenings: Sherlock brings dinner, they sit down and watch television—which John enjoys, and Sherlock pretends to enjoy for John's sake, but only because they get to hold hands. After an hour or two of this, Sherlock lays his head on the bed and John puts his arm around his shoulders. He tells him nice things and kisses the top of his head and runs his fingers over his scalp until they fall asleep. 

Yet there's one thing that remains on Sherlock's mind: the kiss he and John shared during his very first night in hospital. Neither of them have brought it up. And after the fiasco with Doctor Torres, they agreed that they ought to extend the repertoire, but they’ve only continued to practice the already mastered material.

Sherlock believes that they're ready for some intermediate to advanced techniques. 

On the sixth night of their routine, while they watch television, their fingers interlocked—he gets an idea. Without thinking too much, and without explanation, he lifts John's hand to his mouth, turns it over, and places a kiss to his open palm. 

"Well, hello there." John seems pleasantly surprised with Sherlock's idea. 

Sherlock takes his reaction to mean that he can continue. He kisses John's palm a few more times, and then he kisses him on the inner wrist even more times. He trails kisses up John's arm and to his inner elbow, and when John doesn't protest, he follows the opposite pattern, kissing his way back to John's palm. 

"Do you think this will work?" Sherlock asks. 

"I think it will," John responds thoughtfully. "But I should probably practice as well, just to be sure." 

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, offering John the arm closest to him. "I think so, too." The thrill of it causes Sherlock's chest to flare up with excitement. Or maybe indigestion. Difficult to tell. 

John stares down at his hand for a second before taking it, turning it upwards and kissing his palm, just as Sherlock did before. He continues to follow Sherlock's path—kissing his wrist, his arm, and his inner elbow. He pauses. Sherlock expects him to do as he did himself; re-tracing the trail of kisses back to their origin. But instead, he continues upwards, kissing his inner arm, his bicep, his tricep, his collarbone, and finally, his shoulder. 

Oh, it's sensational. 

He pauses again, as if waiting for Sherlock to protest. 

Sherlock would have to be mad to do so. 

"You've got some very good ideas," Sherlock reassures him. 

"I was hoping you would think so." John kisses his shoulder again. And again. He nudges his cold nose over Sherlock's neck and kisses him there, just above the collar of his shirt. He kisses the side of his neck a few times, and then again just below his jaw. 

Sherlock bites his lip to keep a moan from escaping. He doesn't know if it's part of the plan for him to be enjoying this so much. 

"Your neck is absolutely exquisite," John remarks softly. He keeps kissing his neck, over and over—there isn't an inch of it that he doesn't kiss. His tongue peeks from his mouth, working simultaneously with his lips, turning the kisses into dangerously arousing swirls and nibbles. But it's when he begins sucking lightly at Sherlocks skin that Sherlock loses control. 

"John—" he gasps, finally releasing the deep moan of pleasure he's been holding back.

John stops immediately. "I'm sorry," he says gently. "Too much?"

"Not at all," Sherlock says. "More." 

John continues, working all of the same magic with his mouth and his tongue and his light sucking motions, expanding his technique by wrapping his arm around Sherlock and sliding his fingers through his hair. 

Sherlock doesn't even attempt to contain the noises he's bound to make. John is in control, now, and Sherlock quite likes it. 

"Too much?" John asks again. 

"No. More." 

"Good." John releases a warm breath against his ear. "Because I need to tell you that you've never been more gorgeous than you are right now." 

Sherlock's throat tightens and he lets out a rattling sigh. This is probably his new, even more favourite thing to do with John. 

There's a knock at the door. The nurse barges in with her stupid nurse tools. John pulls his mouth away and rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder casually. Sherlock curses beneath his breath and laments the fact that they didn't use the door lock. 

After the nurse leaves, the two of them settle back in for the night. For reasons unclear to Sherlock, they don't continue to practice their intermediate to advanced techniques. They fall asleep the same way the usually do—the way that's become their normal. 

Perhaps, Sherlock thinks, like with all new material, there’s simply a learning curve. 


	6. The Celestial and the Starry-Eyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gazes silently at John, brow furrowed with anticipation. 
> 
> John lifts his hand to cup the side of Sherlock's face—and then, he gives his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s 2 am and 2 am is the best time to publish new chapters :)))) 
> 
> Sorry in advance for the typos. You can think of each one as a tiny little mystery I left behind for you to solve. Great work, you genius, you.

By the end of week one, John begins daily physical therapy sessions. His targets are simple at first: basic range of motion, coordination and strength training—but soon, it’s time to try using the wheelchair. With two fractured legs and one broken arm, he requires quite a lot of help getting in and out of bed—but he's thankful for any chance to move about.

Even better—his pretend husband, as promised, helps care for him whenever he can. This is how John inadvertently (though perhaps, fatefully) learns that Sherlock is stronger than he looks. It also (definitely fatefully) leads to their first of many kissing rehearsals. 

***

"Where _are_ the nurses?" Sherlock wonders aloud as he aggressively flips through television stations. “Helpful lot they are. Popping in and out at the most inconvenient times, yet when they’re actually needed, disappearing altogether." 

It's half eleven; an hour past the time someone usually comes to help John out of his wheelchair and into his bed. 

John finds Sherlock’s crabbiness endearing. “Past your bedtime, is it, gramps?” he teases. 

"Shut up. You're the one who’s got grey hair." 

"It's not grey. It's platinum blond." 

Sherlock shrugs. "If that's what helps you ignore the truth of your mortality." 

John tilts his head thoughtfully. "I could probably get into the bed myself if I needed to." 

"Not the best idea, John. Your muscles have atrophied from bed rest, and you lack the ability to use seventy-five percent of your limbs." Sherlock regards him for a moment. "I could probably lift you.”

”I don’t know, Sherlock. I’m heavier than I look. All muscle mass, mind you.”

“Nonsense. I've seen the nurses do it plenty of times—I'll just tuck my arms in and scoop you up." 

John chuckles softly. "As appealing as it sounds to have you...scoop me up...We can’t have you getting hurt as well.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock switches off the television and moves himself to stand behind John's chair. He pauses briefly before taking hold of the handles. “So, erm...I've got the handles. And I'm going to turn you around." 

"Alright.”

Sherlock spins the chair to face the bed. “Now I’m going to push you.”

"And are you planning to narrate the entire sequence of events, or just the highlights?" John asks. 

Sherlock grumbles incoherently, giving the chair a push. It doesn't budge. 

"John,” he says. “Your carriage appears to be broken." 

"No, it's not broken—the wheels are locked. You just need to flip the brake." 

"Noted." Sherlock bends down and unlocks the brake on one wheel. 

"There are two." 

"Yes, I've got it. Thank you." 

"You sure you want to do this, Sherlock? This isn't even the most complicated part." 

"Your faith in me is much appreciated, as always,” Sherlock says. Then, without warning, he heaves John’s chair forwards at full speed. 

John lets out a startled yelp as they stop just short of the bed. 

Sherlock laughs at him. "I'm sorry. I would have let you know I was going to do that, but I didn't want to overdo it with the narration." 

"Hilarious." John takes a deep breath. "Just maybe watch out for my feet, alright?”

Sherlock spins John's chair back towards himself. "Maybe don't get thrown from buildings." 

"Thanks for the tip." John peers up at him defiantly. Obviously, he would do it a thousand times over if it meant saving Sherlock's life. 

Sherlock crooks one eyebrow before he continues, taking a step forwards between John's legs. When he crouches down, the errant curl trickles out over his forehead.

"I'll just slide my arms beneath your shoulders,” he says to John. “And after that, I’ll pull you on to the bed so you're sitting upright. You think you can take it from there?”

"Yes, I believe so.” John smiles. “First things first, though." He raises his hand to the errant curl and brushes it back behind Sherlock's ear. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s cheeks turn a dusky shade of pink. "Hold on to me now—as tightly as possible." 

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders with as much strength as he can muster, burying his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. 

Sherlock bends down further and hooks his arms beneath John's, engaging his muscles and pulling John's upper body into his. 

"Your legs, now," Sherlock reminds him.

"Yes." John wraps his legs around Sherlock's waist to the best of his limited ability.  
  
"Good," Sherlock responds. "Ready?"

"Ready." 

"Alright. On the count of three. One…"

John nestles his cheek against Sherlock's cool one. Sherlock's skin is so soft that it nearly causes him to shiver. 

“Two...”

John inhales Sherlock's scent; his shampoo smells like lavender and honey. 

"Three." Sherlock stands, lifting John from the chair. "I've got you,” he says.

"Good," John replies. "So now you can just put me…"

“Oh, no.”

”Oh, no...what?”

"I forgot to factor the chair into the equation." 

"You forgot to what the what?"

"Step one: I lift you from the chair. Step two: I place you onto the bed. But there's one step I forgot about, which is...to get the both of us around the chair." 

"Oh." John can feel the oncoming of a very gradual descent. "It's fine." 

"I’m concerned about dropping you,” Sherlock says. “So I'm going to need to try lifting you again, if that’s alright.”

"Okay." If it weren't for the pesky pull of gravity, John would be in no hurry whatsoever to leave Sherlock's arms. 

With a strained grunt, Sherlock spins the two of them away from the bed and towards the adjacent wall, setting John down onto the bedside table. "This will be better," he explains as he tries to catch his breath.

"Yes," John agrees. "A bit higher up than the chair. Less lifting." 

"Apologies," Sherlock pants. "Just give me a moment." 

"Take your time." John sinks his head back down into Sherlock's neck and brushes his lips against his skin. "You're doing amazing." 

"...Thank you." Sherlock lifts his arms to pull John into a full, deliberate embrace, and he kisses his neck gently in return. "So are you." He then brushes his mouth against John's jaw, and then against his earlobe.

The shiver that's been on the verge of release finally shoots through John's body.

"John," Sherlock murmurs. "Do you think we ought to try kissing again?"

“What do you mean?” John is as confused by the question as he is elated. 

Sherlock pulls away to look down at him. “You kissed me on the mouth during your first night here. And I would like for you to do it again." 

John takes in a muted breath of awe. Of course. His first night here. The kiss he thought could only be a dream. He ought to have known that such a kiss could have been real with Sherlock—the man he so deeply loves. 

Sherlock gazes silently at John, brow furrowed with anticipation. 

John lifts his hand to cup the side of Sherlock's face—and then, he gives his answer. 

The two men inhale, breathing each other’s names from one mouth to another. The kiss is starry-eyed and celestial, even as Sherlock's body sinks into John’s and anchors him to earth. Ethereal, yet more vivid than the earnest desire lingering at their lips. Extraordinary, yet more genuine than the palpable sense of having waited far too long. 

John sweeps his tongue over the seam of Sherlock's mouth until it parts, sucking delicately at his full bottom lip and eliciting a small moan from his partner. Eagerly, they wrap themselves up in each other’s arms, brushing their tongues together until they’ve run out of breath again. 

As John pulls away, Sherlock whimpers, sucking gently at John's bottom lip in protest. 

“Bed,” John says.

Sherlock smiles. "Hold on."

John wraps his arms and legs around Sherlock once more. Sherlock lifts his body back into him, sealing their lips together the moment they’re close enough to do so.

The two men continue kissing as Sherlock spins their bodies back towards the bed, and as he kicks the chair out of their way, and as he carefully kneels to settle John in. 

Even after they’ve made it to the bed, John clings to him—and they kiss some more, and then some more. They kiss until John is too fatigued to sit up any longer, and when that happens, Sherlock lays John's body back, and his head onto the pillow, and he ensures he’s got plenty of blankets. 

And finally, Sherlock lays his head down next to John’s, and John wraps his arm around him, and he strokes and kisses his hair until they fall asleep. 

The nurse never comes that night. Apparently (though perhaps, also, fatefully), there was a mix up with the shifts. Someone definitely got fired over that little mishap. 

Sure enough, like clockwork, their morning nurse wakes them up at five the next morning.

As soon as she's gone, John and Sherlock continue honing their kissing techniques. Sherlock tells John that he's a very quick study, but that he thinks he may need much more kissing practice himself. 

John thinks Sherlock is better than he gives himself credit for, but he doesn't argue. His mouth is far too busy for that. 


End file.
